


Dirty Little Strider

by secondhandact



Series: Dirty Little Strider - John and Dave [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asphyxiation, Awkward Flirting, BDSM, Bondage, Choking, Crossdressing, Face Slapping, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Watching, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: If you'd known your best friend did porn for a living, things would have been a lot different from the get-go.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of the first fics I ever wrote. It is, in fact, the one that got me Lots Of Attention in the Homestuck fandom, because it's _DaveJohn_ and I started it during the first Megapause, which gave people something to read, I guess?
> 
> Whatever.
> 
> I tore it down like two years ago, and I am now reworking it. The only part that's going to have any continuity is going to be the first part, which is this fic (Dirty Little Strider), and the next fic (All I Need Is John). After that, I'm probably just going to write a lot of one-shots, because really, once they're all nice and tidy why not just write them fucking a lot? I mean, that's what _I_ want to do.
> 
> So.
> 
> Enjoy.

It's the only dirty secret you've got, really, so you've never felt bad about buying it. One new movie every two or three weeks, always from a different store so nobody ever recognized your face. It's not that you're homosexual— you're _not_ , you've got more babes than Hollywood, check you out, you're so fly—but every now and then, you crave some good guy-on-guy action. You'd never dream of actually doing it, of course! But you'll watch it, and today you want something new, so you’d taken a quick trip down to the nearest sex store, snagged the first twink vid you’d seen, and skedaddled your ass back home.

Dave's not home when you get back, so you pop the CD in the DVD player on your way to the kitchen, to give it time to boot up and take you to the root menu or whatever. You’re not worried that Dave’s gonna catch you out with your dirty secret. Usually if he's gone, he'll be gone for a hot minute, because when Dave fuckin’ Strider checks out of the apartment, it's never for some casual dalliance down at the coffee shop. No, his outings usually take hours. Once, he’d been gone for two whole days and you’d been about to call the cops and ask if they’d found your best friend’s body when he came strolling through the front door like nothing was wrong and he hadn’t just given you the scare of the century.

He'd still been asleep when you'd left thirty minutes earlier, so he _probably_ hasn't been gone long. You figure you've got time. Besides, you've never used the big screen and killer sound system for your porn, and the idea of hearing some moans in stereo while you're getting your rocks off is exciting as anything; I mean, hell, you're already half-hard at the thought of it.

There's a piece of paper tacked to the fridge that has 'EGBERT' scrawled across it in Dave's slanty handwriting. You tug it down, scan the note with a grin, picking out the words 'bringing home dinner' and 'don't wait up'. Yeah, plenty of time, that seals it, for sure. You hit _play_ on the DVD player on your way to the bedroom, so you can get your lube out of the bedside drawer and some kleenex before things actually start getting interesting. You’d grabbed something that promised lots of action—something something three-way something something—so you don’t think it’d take long for it to get to the good bits.

You’re not wrong; by the time you’re settled into the couch they’re already all pantsless, and the one in the middle—some twinky blonde thing, you can’t tell much beyond that, he’s got his back to the camera—is butt-ass naked and going to _town_ on the guy in front of him while the other one is working his own shaft up. The boy in the middle is gonna get spitroasted, you already know. That’s the thing about porn: it’s always super predictable.

That doesn’t mean it gets you any less hard. By the time you actually unfasten your pants (instead of just palming yourself lazily through them) your cock is aching, and you wrap your hand around the base of your shaft right as the second dude eases his dick into the blond bombshell in front of him. It's good porn, you've gotta admit, and that's always nice, because it's not like you'd ever fathom doing any research on gay porn before you bought it. You always just grab the first thing you see, which means it’s hit-or-miss. Sometimes you get the pizza guy trying to fix the plumbing and sometimes you get loud, fake-ass moans and you’re just not down for that. This, though—this is fucking quality. They don’t waste any time—the guy who started is ramming hard against the twink from behind, and the sloppy little noises coming from him sound pretty genuine, especially considering the force of the thrusts rocking him on the bed.  
  
There's something familiar about the blond, too, and as you stroke, you find yourself wondering why. Maybe you’ve seen him in seen him in one of your other movies, but that doesn’t sound _quite_ right. You don’t think so. He's kind of distinctive, even in the world of gay porn: he’s lean and wiry, which is typical, sure; but he’s also got hints of old scars lacing up his sides and down his thighs, with a couple on his back. He’s got pretty freckles all over his shoulders and an even prettier moan, the sort of noise that you're going to be replaying in your head anytime you need to take care of yourself, you just know it. So no, you probably haven’t caught him in another flick. You’re sure you would’ve remembered him, if you’d seen him before. Heck, you’re pretty sure you would have made it a point to buy any movie with his name on the label; and while that would mean a little more time in the porn shops, this guy is totally worth it, you think.

Whoever he is, he's absolutely _gorgeous_ , and you catch yourself muttering commands at the nameless dude on the screen, hissing self-indulgent desires so raunchy that you can feel your cheeks burning as you get close.

The camera is zooming in on his face as the two guys who have been fucking around with him pull out and crowd close, so they can spend themselves on his face, and your breath catches, your hand freezing in place, because you know him, you _know that face_ , and when one red eye rolls open and stares wantonly into the camera, you're cumming without even meaning to, hips jerking on the couch, your half-strangled cry loud enough to echo through the apartment. You spend yourself over your hand while he’s getting someone else’s spunk on his face, and you shudder, the  the force of your orgasm so intense that you're surprised you didn't hit the TV across the room.

He's licking his lips, wiping jizz from his face and sucking it off his fingers with a smile, and you’re dimly aware that that your breath is coming in the form of faint whimpers in the back of your throat. _Fuck._ You’re not sure what to do with the information that’s being basically shoved into your eyeholes, your cock still twitching in your lap. Sure, you’ve always been aware that he’s attractive but it’s the same way you’re aware of the sun, you just don’t really think about it. You go out of your _way_ not to think about it, even. After all, you’re not a homosexual. Getting off on twinks and actually _getting off_ on a twink is two different things.  
  
But seeing him like this is almost _unfair._ The dormant desire you’ve so stubbornly kept quiet, harbored deep in the lost memories of high school days long past, burns with sudden fire in your blood, leaving your mouth dry. He'll be home soon (suddenly, those hours seem like minutes, and your stomach drops), and _oh gosh how are you going to be able to look at him_ , how are you gonna be able to hold a conversation without thinking about him on his knees and the way he sounds when he's getting fucked and _your dick in his mouth and_ **_oh no_ ** —  
  
Your name is John Egbert, and you just accidentally got off to watching your best bro getting nailed.  
what are you going to do now?


	2. Chapter 2

Initially, you plan on playing it off, just going on like you didn’t catch your best friend getting railed between two beefy buff dudes on camera. Oh, and also learned something you didn’t know before: Your best friend is a porn star  
  
So what?   
  
It’s not like you haven’t noticed he’s hot before this. The first time you’d been made aware of how attractive Dave Strider is had been in high school, and it had never mattered because that was a conversation you could  _ never _ have, especially not with your bro, your favorite palhoncho, the most ironic asshole to walk the halls of any middle-class Suburbia high school. You'd done a swell job of overlooking the shape of him then, had managed with cold showers and maintaining at least six inches of buffer between your bodies before you let yourself pass out whenever the two of you shared a room. You’d made it through high school, no sweat, and not once had your best friend suspected you thought his ass looked nice. You’d played it the ultimate of cool and come out on top.   
  
So, yeah. You’ve ignored your boner for him before, you can do it again. This time should be easier. Simple, even. You are an adult. You’re in control of yourself. You are John Egbert, and you are not a homosexual, no matter how much you enjoy watching gay porn.  Especially gay porn of your best bro.   
  
You got this.  
  
Except...

Except in high school, you didn’t know what he looked like when he was moaning, and now that you know just how he sounds when he’s getting fucked, you find that he’s all you can think about. Dave, when you’re showering in the morning. Dave, when you’re getting ready for work. Dave, when you’re clocking out for the day.  
  
Dave.  
  
As if that wasn’t bad enough, you’re also noticing a thousand little things that you’d never noticed before. Like the fact that since it's summer, he's shirtless like 90% of the time, with some sort of weird sex-magic holding loose-fitting pants to the curve of his hips. (Or maybe it’s the intensity of your attention.) Or the fact that when he gets out of the shower, he's usually only wearing boxers. (And sunglasses. Man, how ironic can  he be?) Can't forget that when he's wolfing down whatever cheap take-out the pair of you ordered, he leans on the kitchen counter while talking to you, his ass jutting out in a way that's almost obscene. (No, it's definitely obscene, how is anyone that  _ fuckable _ , it isn't even fair.)  
  
Like it or not, things have changed now, and you don’t know how to handle it.   


* * *

It only gets worse. You go from thinking about him moaning to imagining intense scenarios while you’re going through the motions of life. What he’d look like if he was on his knees in front of you in the shower. How it’d feel to have him straddling you when you get ready to go to work. Where you’d take him if you were clocking out to meet him instead of just go home for the day.   
  
You catch him coming out of the shower _without _his boxers nearly a week after The Event, and you sidestep him into the bathroom, your cheeks burning red. He’s still jeering at you through the door when you flip the water on, and the fact that he’d left you next to no hot water does absolutely nothing to stem your arousal. You stand under it long after it’s run cold, muffling yourself with the heel of your hand even though the sound of the shower should definitely be enough to mask your sounds.__  
  
Of course, by the time you’re out, he’s splayed himself over the couch, wearing pajamas that are slung way lower than they should be, eating ice cream and watching  _ Armageddon. _

____

Really?

Fucking really?  
  
You make some weak excuse about being so tired you can’t see and abscond to your room.   
  
This isn’t going to work. You need to do something about it, or you’re gonna go mad. 

* * *

It’s a Thursday when you make up your mind that you’re going to have to talk to him about your ridiculous fucking crush on him, and you set the scene by making dinner.

Since it’s Thursday, that means Dave strolls back into the apartment around six. Today, by the time he’s closing the door you’re splitting the stir-fry you’d made between two plates, and you grab a couple cans of cream soda from the fridge while he’s shouldering off his backpack. He watches you with interest as you fill a pair of champagne flutes (because you’re gonna take this All The Way, because then when he shoots you down, you can pretend it’s just a joke, ha-ha) with the soda, and he snickers. As you light the long, tapered candles you’d put on the table (useless, under the neon glow of your  _ Ghostbusters _ sign), he sits down. “What’s the occasion? Should I go put on a dress?”   
  
The laugh that prompts from you gets a little strangled at the end, because  _ Dave in a dress _ is a nicer mental image than you’d be expecting, and it only gets better from there.   
  
You clear your throat.  _ Focus _ . “I just—I felt like cooking. That alone should be magical enough that your breath is just taken away and your mind beyond blown."

"It is." He slides into a chair, glancing up at you over the rims of his shades, batting his eyes coquettishly. Your stomach clenches, your pants get tighter, and you sink into the chair across from him. "You should cook more often, Egbert. You'll get me swooning at your feet. Who knows-" He stabs a bit of chicken, gesturing at you with it. "Maybe I'll even clean house."

"My ultimate dream, Dave Strider as the perfect housewife.” You roll your eyes.  
  
For a few moments, there’s silence, and you turn over what to say in your head, running through the different things you could say. You don’t even know how to begin to say it. _Did you know I’ve wanted your ass since high school?_ __  
  
Too open. __  
__  
So after dinner, wanna head back to my room?  
  
Not direct enough.  
__  
Hey, so I saw this porn that you were in, so is that how you pay the bills? __  
  
No.  
  
_Wanna pay **my** bills? ;D_  
  
Wow, _really_ no.  
  
“What’s on your mind?”  
  
His voice startles you out of your thoughts, and you look at him, blinking owlishly. “What?”  
  
“I said,” he takes another bite, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “What’s up? You’ve been acting weird for, like, two weeks now. You gonna tell me what’s going on?”  
  
You’re suddenly glad for the low lighting, because your cheeks are on fire. “Oh, uh. I don’t know.” Your laugh is, once again, not at all natural.  “You done?”  
  
There’s a pause. “Yeah,” he says finally, watching you as you gather up the plates, carrying them into the kitchen.  
  
You actually take the time to wash them, because you have no clue what you were thinking, making dinner and setting shit up like you’d actually be able to say something, like this would actually make things better.  
  
You swear softly at yourself as you jam the plates in the drying rack, and when you turn around, you nearly bump into his chest. “Dude—!”  
  
He takes a couple steps back while he studies you, arms folded over his chest and a brow quirked up over one lens. “So what’s got you so skittish?”  
  
His lips are chapped, you notice, and you wet your own nervously. “I’ve just...been thinking.”  
  
“Yeah?” He doesn’t move.  
  
“I mean, like—” You’re floundering, and you back up against the sink. “You know how, um, people slowly learn they’re...like...into stuff that they weren’t before?”  
  
You can’t see his eyes but you know he’s rolling them, and he drops his arms to his side, turning away. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”  
  
The ball of tension in your stomach tightens. “What?”  
  
He’s on his way back to his room, his voice drifting down the hall. “Is this about some new kink you’ve discovered, or something?”  
  
You blink at the space where his voice came from, and your voice squeaks out the word a second time. _“What?”_  
  
He reappears in the hallway, shirtless (of course) with a bottle of AJ from his minifridge and leans against the wall. “What did you start liking that freaked you out?”  
  
Your cheeks are burning. “I’m not __freaked out ,” you say hotly.   
  
“Yeah?” He twists the cap off the bottle, taking a swig from it. “You sure are acting freaked out.”  
  
You roll your eyes, stalking into the living room. “Fuck off, Dave.” You can’t imagine why you ever thought this would work. He’s a douche. The Douchiest of Douches. The Douche of Jerkington. What did you ever see in him?  
He vaults himself over the couch and lands heavily on it, kicking up his legs on the coffee table. His pants have managed to fall a good two inches, and you’re pretty sure that just being aware of the V of Dave’s hips is a sin.   
  
“You know, if I didn’t give you shit, you wouldn’t know I cared.” He almost grins at you.  
  
You sit heavily on the other side of the couch.“Like two weeks ago.”  
  
There’s confusion on his face. “Two weeks ago what?”   
  
“Two weeks ago,” you say carefully, “I started liking the thing that freaks me out.”   
  
“Oh.” He adjusts himself, so that he’s leaning against you, instead of the arm of the couch. (You do not tense up, you do not think about what would happen if he slid a little closer—) “So what is it? Watersports? Bondage?” He pauses. “You know, I could help you with that last one, if you weren’t so very _ not a homosexual _ .” He parrots your voice, making you wince, continuing, “C’mon. I’m not gonna judge you. Tell me.”   
  
You shake your head mutely.   
  
“Dude, nothing’s gonna change between us, just because of what you’re into.”   
  
“You’re still shaking your head. “You don’t know that.”   


“How long have we known each other?” He nudges your side. " John, I didn’t quit talking to you after you pulled that shit in high sch—”   


You cut him off. “You’re the thing.”  
  
Silence.

He swings his legs off the couch, and you’re sure that you’ve fucked up, might as well go join a monastery or a priesthood or something so you can forget all the ways Dave Strider makes you hot and bothered without even trying. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Just because he does gay porn doesn’t mean he’s into you. If he was into you you’d know.   
  
He settles his legs on either side of you, straddling you. “Me.”  
  
Oh. “Yeah.” It’s hard to talk; your voice is small and nervous. “You.”  
  
This time, the silence drags on long enough that you wish you could burrow into the couch and disappear into a place where you hadn’t been stupid enough to open your mouth. “Fuck it,” he mutters, and while you’re trying to process what he means by that he shifts forward and seals his lips against yours.  
  
Whatever you’d been thinking before, that train of thought has been derailed, and it crashes and burns into nothing when he begins working his way down your body. He knows what he’s doing, that’s for sure. 

You’d wondered, once, how much of porn was actually talent; Dave answers all your questions and more, sinking to his knees and sliding your pants open in one easy movement. You hadn’t asked for this but you’re apparently getting it, and when he finally frees you from your boxers he takes the whole of your length into his mouth without even batting an eye. You can feel his throat constricting around the head of your cock and you clench the couch with one hand, the other falling to the back of his head, fingers threading through his blond locks. Three weeks ago, you would’ve never considered actually letting another guy suck you off, and now your best friend is on his knees between your legs, enacting what must be every trick he’s ever learned just to make your toes curl. 

When he lets you slip from his mouth, he presses kisses down the length of your shaft, mouthing at the base while he runs his fingers up the underside. It sends tremors dancing through your body, and when he drags his tongue back up and sucks you past his lips, the hollow of his cheeks enough to make you actually moan. 

He laughs softly, and his breath washing over your damp skin makes your skin prickle. “Been that desperate, huh?” 

“Fuck you,” you whisper raggedly, struggling to steady your breathing in the few seconds you’ve got. “Maybe I just want you that bad.” 

“Maybe you do.” He murmurs the words against your dick, folding his fingers around it. You glance down to meet his gaze, realizing with a start that he’d ditched his shades. “Maybe I shouldn’t give it to you.” 

Your heart might stop, and you can’t help but watch his hand as it rides up and down your length. Maybe it’s something about how he’s squeezing you. Or maybe it’s just the smile on his face, like a cat that just got its cream. You’d like to come up with some witty response, but you’ve got nothing except a gasp in your throat, because he’s got you in his mouth again, and that’s where he keeps you, until there’s heat coiling in your belly and you’re so close you can fucking _taste_ it — 

He comes up for air right as you’re choking on his name, and after one, two, three pumps you’re jerking on the couch, thrusting helplessly up into his hand and covering his face with your cum. He looks good, covered in your spunk, and he opens one eye, catching his breath. His hand doesn’t stop, which is fine by you. You could spend the rest of the night fucking Dave Strider and still want more in the morning. His hand doesn’t stop, and when your cock is almost fully hard again, he finally releases you, sitting back and grinning up at you, eyes half-lidded. “You gonna do something with that?” 

Even in the aftermath of an orgasm, answering his question still makes your cheeks heat a little. “Gonna do you.” You blush, and feel ridiculous for it. Shit like this doesn’t make you blush. Shit like this is all fun and games. Except it does right now, because this is with _Dave._ This is with your best friend, the coolest guy since the Fonz, the most awesome slice of irony ever, the biggest fucking dweeb you’ve ever met in your life. This is with the only guy who has ever seen you cry, for fuck’s sake.

For once, Dave doesn't come back at you with a witty response. Instead, he raises a brow and stands up, and as he walks away from you he pauses to peel off each of his socks in turn. Next is his shirt, tossed haphazardly at the bookshelves; followed by his jeans, which he leaves in a puddle of denim a few feet from the door to his bedroom, which leaves him in a pair of white-piped red briefs at the entrance to his room and--of course--his shades.

You can't take your eyes off of him.

He's not looking at you. Instead, he's watching his own hand as it slips down his side and hooks his thumb into the hem of his briefs. Slowly, they come down, and for the first time you're seeing in the flesh what you've only seen in dreams and stolen glances in the locker room (and _oh yeah_ in hi-def on your TV three weeks ago, but we don't talk about that).

He pulls on the band and slingshots them in your direction before disappearing into his room, and you're tripping over your feet (and the jeans still around your knees) in less than a second. It takes you long enough to get untangled from your clothes that your phone is buzzing with a message from Dave by the time you're upright and before you've made it to the door.

TG: you gonna make good on that threat or are you just a whole bunch of talk and not a lot of action  
TG: thought you were better than that egbert

You scowl at your phone, and march into Dave's room. You'll show _him._


	3. Chapter 3

It's almost embarrassing how your fingers keep slipping on the knots, though you know he doesn't expect you to be perfect or even really good at this. It doesn't matter, because you're John Egbert, and your first Boy Scout badge was for knot-tying; which means you should be absolute aces at this, despite the fact that there's a naked boy on the bed; one who is, in fact, being secured by your fumbled, horrible knots. 

He's the biggest distraction, and the way he shifts occasionally on the bed isn't helping at all. You're pretty sure if you could focus on what you're doing and not him for more than thirty seconds, he would have been immobile long ago.

"Dude, there's cuffs in the nightstand." You can hear soft amusement in his voice, and it makes you cringe. You almost want to gag him, because you're pretty sure he's going to be giving you hell all night, and if he does, you're going to call this quits before you even get your hands on him, despite the fact that he had gotten you so hard that you're still aching. 

The eager excitement that has been racing through you since he'd stripped off his clothes is beginning to wear off, leaving you irritated with the lanky boy you're binding to the bed. "That's the easy way out. I'm the champion of knots, you don't even know." As you speak, you finally manage to get the rope to twist the right way, and you sit back, grinning to yourself, before surveying your handiwork.

Dave's testing his binds even before you slide off the bed, skinny wrists pulling against the velvet ropes, and the faint gasp that escapes him when he tries to force his thighs closed makes you shiver. He looks good on his back, and you're pleased to see the slipknots you tied holding. When he realizes that all his moving is making his binds tighter, he smirks and twists them _roughly,_ forcing them to rub at his skin, which is enough to make him moan.

Hearing the real thing is a thousand times better than watching it on a screen, god—he's gorgeous, perfect. It's like your own personal porn, except better, because you know that he's yours for the night, and the thought is so unbearably exciting that your hand is around your junk and you have no idea how it got there or when that happened. You settle between his legs, idly stroking yourself, and when your fingers skirt over the plane of his stomach, he shifts into your touch, encouraging you silently.

He looks almost delicate; a butterfly caught in your net, and it makes you nervous. You're aware, dimly, that he's probably endured way more than you could imagine—being a pornstar means that he's probably been subjected to shit that's beyond your skill level and way more than you could produce—but that doesn't change the fact that you've filled out and Dave Strider is still the same skinny bastard he's been since you two were kids. His hipbones are visible against his skin, his waist and his shoulders are almost painfully narrow. He looks almost breakable, and as you trace the shape of his hips, the line of muscles concealed under the flesh, you wonder how you can possibly do this. You're so horny you think you might explode, and the idea of your best palhoncho being covered in unwanted bruises because of your over-eager hormonal desperation is ~~wickedly hot~~ mortifying, because you don't want to hurt Dave. 

At least, you don't _think_ you do.

Dave clears his throat. "Hey." 

The sound is jarring, and you glance up, startled, only to meet eyes that you weren't aware were open. The intensity of concern in his gaze is enough to make your cheeks burn. The tips of your ears are turning red, you just know it.

He doesn't help. "You okay?"

You can't stop touching him. It's like the weirdest, best dream you've ever had and you keep waiting to wake up, because surely it hasn't _actually_ gotten this far, surely Dave Strider, snarkmaster extraordinaire and part-time pornstar isn't _actually_ naked and tied to his bed because of you, _for you_. Surely this isn't actually really _real,_ is it?

Except now he's gone still, and he's still staring at you. His red irises are so bright they almost glow in the semidarkness of his room. "John," he prompts. "It's okay. If you're not ready—"

"I'm ready!" Your protest comes out with enough force that he laughs, which makes you scowl. "I'm just afraid I'm going to hurt you." 

He blinks up at you for a second, and then laughs again. This time, it's a long, drawn out sound, one that comes from the center of his chest and echoes into the corners of the room. He's laughing **at** you, and in an instant you're furious, because _who is this guy,_ fuck him, he thinks so little of you, he's just laughing his ass off.

"Fuck you," you say aloud, angry. "I'm gonna just get dressed and leave you here to figure out how to get out of these shitty velvet ropes with no help, you shitty little asshole—"

"John," he says, still snickering, "If you can actually manage to hurt me I'll put on a dress and clean the whole fucking house and actually _be_ your perfect little housewife. 'I'm going to hurt you'," He parrots your voice in a high-pitched, nasal tone that you are sure sounds nothing like you. "Please. It's better when it's rough."

"Not this sort of rough," you mutter, scowling at him as you adjust your glasses.

"You can't hurt me," he murmurs, smirking at you. 

"Bet'cha I can."

He arches in his bindings, lifting his head as much as he can. "Then fucking _try it,_ you coward." He's spitting the words like they're a challenge, and it's making your blood boil. "Bring it the fuck _on,_ John Egbert, all talk and no action, dog barkin' without any teeth, fucking try to hurt me, you cocky, smug, snarky fuckstick, _I want you to hurt me,_ you—"

You slap him.

He goes from laughing to gasping in a heartbeat, and then he's arching on the bed, almost purring with delight. You're mortified, because _holy fuck you just **slapped Dave,**_ and he's _moaning_ at you. 

There are no words for how absolutely, ridiculously astonished you are right now. 

Dave's clearly thrilled. "Yeah, god, _fuck_ yes—" He's pulling at his ties again, and you're pretty sure if those knots get any tighter, he's not going to have any feeling in his wrists. Oh, fuck, why is it so _hot_ to see him like this? "John—"

Whatever restraint you might have had is obliterated by the sound of your name on his lips, and you're groping desperately for the bottle of lube he'd pulled out of the nightstand before he'd stretched out on the bed. You're sure the amount that you're slathering yourself with is either not enough or too much, and when he jeers at you—"What are you trying to do, Egdork, shove your dick into a garden hose—" you glare at him again, before slipping your hand between his legs, finding his entrance, and plunging two greased fingers into the dry hole. He gasps again, and you decide that one of your favorite things is making him shudder when he's trying to be funny.  
He's wriggling his ass against your palm. "John, you're not gonna break me, stop fucking holding back."

"Shut up, Dave, I'm not even kidding right now, do you have any idea how hard you're making this?"

"It was pretty hard before we got in here," he says, and you slap him again. This time, he actually cries out, and when you dig your fingers into his hips and _yank_ him against you, sinking your cock into him with one swift thrust, he shudders. There'll be bruises, you know, but he's gasping for more, and you can't help but give it to him, thrusting into him with sloppy, rough motions. His eyes are rolling back in his head and this time when you slap him you card your fingers into his hair and _pull_ and the sound of him near-sobbing is enough to make you want to untie him and flip him over so you can fuck him _right_ , with his face shoved into the pillows and his ass in the air, but that would mean stopping, and you can't stop. Your name is peppered in between the moans coming out of his mouth and you can't stop, you _won't_ stop, because he feels good, _perfect_ around you. You wonder, momentarily, how the hell he can be so tight around you, you were watching him get railed on-screen not too long ago and he'd looked pro at it but he's so hot around you, like he was made for you, god he's _perfect_ —

Dave is writhing beneath you, making these hot little noises that you still can't quite believe are real. Somewhere among the sounds coming from his mouth are pleas for more, more, _now_ , and you give him what he's asking for, rutting against him until he's not watching you anymore, his hands clutching at the rope holding him down as he presses his face against the pillow beneath his head, hips bouncing helplessly beneath the animalistic fury of your thrusts. You wonder if you could make him cum like this, and you grope hungrily for his hard dick, jerking it roughly with the time of your thrusts, because you're close, you're _so close_ , and after the third time he cries out for you— _John, fuck, **yes**_ —you can't hold back anymore.

When you collapse beside him, you have the presence of mind to pluck loose one of the knots holding back his hands, because you know that wasn't enough for him, and you're not the asshole he thinks you are. You press against him, peppering one freckled shoulder with kisses and whispering encouragement in his ear, your hand closed over his so you can feel the way he works himself in hard, fast jerks. You're hard again in no time at all, and when his free hand wraps around you, you make a noise that's almost a whine.

He pries your hand off of his and finishes the job of untying himself. As he straddles you, you survey the damage - there's marks on his hips where you'd clutched at him, and his cheeks are a ruddy red that might turn purple later. "That was good, Egbert," he murmurs, reaching for the lube you'd tossed so carelessly on the bed. "But I ain't done with you yet."

He eases himself down on you, and you think you like this angle better, because you can watch the way his face changes when you're finally all the way inside him. He leans back just a little bit and then he's riding you in a rolling, smooth motion, your cock gliding out and then back in and his jutting desperately out into the air. Your hands aren't coordinated but you still close one around him and he groans, shifting so that he's thrusting up into your hand while riding your cock, and it's the best thing you've ever seen, Dave Strider working himself into a desperate, hungry mess on you, and when he starts to falter you grasp at his hips and hammer up into him, fucking him roughly enough to make him bounce, and he rakes his nails over your chest. "Fuck yes," he pants, his head bowed, hair dusting his cheeks. "Just like that, fuck yes, John, _don't fucking stop—_ "

You don't stop, even when he takes your hand and fits it around his neck. You don't stop, even when he tells you to squeeze and then his eyes are rolling back in his head and his mouth is open but he's not making any sounds, and soon he's shuddering, his cock twitching right before he cums in hot spurts while he clenches down on you. It's the first time you've gotten him off and the third time he's gotten you, and when he finally slides off of you your cock, for once, doesn't immediately stir when he gives it a gentle stroke. 

Spent, he tucks himself against your chest and you curl one arm around him, unmindful of the fact that he's a sticky mess twice over and it's all your fault. Showers can come later. Right now you just want to be close to him, because you're still in a weird state of disbelief. Maybe someday, you'll find a way down out of these clouds, but for now you're content to relax. You figure it kinda makes sense that your first homosexual experience would be with your best palhoncho, and when he kisses your chest, you almost giggle. Almost. You don't, though, because giggles aren't manly, and everyone knows that you're the most masculine of bros.

"Dave?"

"Yo."

"...did you just 'yo' me after I fucked you?"

He's unmoved by your mock anger. "What's up, bro?"

"Is shit gonna get awkward?" Your eyes are open now, and you're staring up at the ceiling, nervously contemplating a thousand ways in which things could go wrong. You don't want them to. Dave's your best friend, and the idea of things being fucked up between the two of you just because you couldn't control your dick is more than a little upsetting.

He laughs, and you groan, because you're tired of Dave laughing at you. His face is in your vision a second later, and he's grinning at you. "Nah. Shit's not gonna get awkward."

He kisses you, and you think that you'll take whatever awkward might happen, if you can spend your nights doing things like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon sent me a message last night asking me if this fic was still available anywhere, 'even if it was just on tumblr', so now I'm dedicated to finishing the polishing. There's one more chapter of this bit, and then All I Need Is John is probably gonna be a little easier to work on.
> 
> I might not be writing very much anymore, but I _hate_ leaving shit unfinished.


	4. Chapter 4

You bought him a dress.

You don't know why you'd done it, though you kinda had an idea where the urge had come from. You've always liked getting people stuff, and now that you and Dave are... _whatever_ it is that you are, the urge to shower him with stupid little trinkets has grown to the point where it's almost impossible to deny. In the week since you'd woken up naked next to him, there have been no less than a dozen instances where you've found yourself in some chintzy little store for no reason and have had to resist buying every stupid sappy thing ever for him. You've only stopped yourself because you're pretty sure showering him in ridiculous things would make things awkward, and things are _not_ going to get awkward, not on your watch, even if you have to shoot every little fluttery heart that insists on circling around your head and take a thousand cold showers a day.

The dress had been too perfect to pass up, though. You'd seen it hanging in the window and had spent fifteen minutes agonizing over what size he might be before you'd finally slapped your cash down on the counter. It's simple, red with a black ribbon around the waist, sleeveless and straight-seamed. You'd imagined the soft fabric shifting over his thighs, and smiled to yourself as you fairly skipped out of the store. You'd taken it home and hung it up in the closet, because the idea of actually giving it to him is unfathomable. Like Dave Strider would ever wear a dress. You'd fully expected it to become something forgotten, invisible and unknown to everything but your most secret of fantasies.

So when you come home from class to him vacuuming in it, you can't do anything but stare.

You've dated more than a dozen girls in your lifetime, and not a single one of them made sundresses look as good as Dave Strider does. He's practically strutting across the floor in a pair of low-heeled mary janes and white nylon stockings, and even with those shades on, he still looks amazing. He's finished off the outfit with a pair of black-and-red barrettes in his hair (you're pretty sure they're decorated with tiny records, and it's so perfect you almost want to die), and as you slide your backpack to the floor, he turns the vacuum off, glancing over his shoulder. He's stoic, as always. Like this isn't new. Like this is just another day in the life of Dave Strider. "Hey, bro. Didn't hear you come in." He's full of shit, you know it, because he's stopped the vacuum in the middle of the room and why would he do that. "Pick your jaw up," he adds, and you immediately snap your mouth shut, feeling an all-too-familiar warmth spread across your cheeks. "Don't want you catching flies."

Oh my god what an asshole, what are you doing mooning over him, he's gone from king of Jerktopia to Jerk-president of Asshole-world. "You went into my closet," you say lamely, and mentally, you kick yourself. Duh, and why are you complaining about it, he looks _awesome._

He raises a brow. Shrugs. "Was doing laundry. Didn't think this was tailored to your size, figured it must've gotten hung in the wrong closet." He smooths his hands over the fabric, and you swallow convulsively. How does he do that, make your insides all twisty without even trying? He's ignoring your discomfort, spinning slowly in place, making the skirt flare around his slim hips. God, why can't you stop _staring_. "It looks pretty amazing, though. You did good, except for the sizing thing. I can help you with that, if you want."

 _Like he doesn't know you bought it for him._ He's impossible. "You were doing laundry." Your mouth is dry, and you're trying to reconcile the Dave you've always known with the one you see now, cleaning house and doing laundry and wearing a _dress,_ looking _amazing in it._ It's not easy. It kinda makes your brain hurt, in fact.

Your words inspire a slow smirk on his face, and he leans back against the bar that separates the living room from the kitchen, tilting his head to the side. The line of his neck is so pretty, you think, and you swallow again. "Didn't I say that if you managed to hurt me, I'd be your perfect little housewife?" He licks his lips, wiggles his hips in a way that's almost suggestive. Almost. "Shame all the bruises have faded, else I'd show you how much I liked them."

 

You're against him a second later, your lips on his. He twines his arms around your neck, reclines back and actually wraps one leg around your hips, pulling you close, sighing into your mouth. When you break the kiss and lower your head to bite at the pretty curve of his neck, you're pleased to hear him groan, and he tangles a hand in your hair. You're sliding your hand over his thigh, under his skirt (and whoa, he shaved, the skin under your fingers is smooth as fuck) finding the silky little undergarments he put on to finish off the ensemble he'd chosen to tease you with today. You clutch the curve of his ass, yank him roughly against you. His breath hitches, and he nudges you with his knee.

There's lube on the counter. "Why is there lube on the counter."

He laughs, and you flip him around, your hand on the back of his neck nearly slamming his chest down against the granite, which makes him gasp. He's still laughing as you hike up his skirt, doesn't stop until you swat the curve of his ass, and even then the yelp that escapes him only interrupts his snickering for a second. He planned this, and you don't care that you're falling right in line with what he wanted, because there's red fabric bunched around his hips and the only thing stopping you from taking him is a few inches of silk and your jeans. Your breath is coming in ragged pants, and he's practically writhing against the counter while you fumble with your zipper. "John, what the fuck, are you seriously going to leave me hanging—"

You slap his ass again, and he arches up into the touch, his hands clutching at the counter's edge.

Your pants are down around your ankles (finally, god) and his giggles stutter to a stop when you take him, burying yourself to the hilt in one swift motion. You have no intention of giving him time to catch his breath, immediately establishing a rough, slow rhythm, one hand clutching at his side, yanking him back against you with each thrust. He's choking on his gasps, and when your greased fingers squeezes him through the confines of his panties, he rocks back against to you, something akin to a whine escaping him. You're not sure if his noises are pitched higher than normal or if it's just your imagination, and when your name first escapes his lips in soft, gasping pants, you begin moving faster. There will be bruises on him tomorrow, and you don't care, you want him _covered_ in bruises, because he's _begging for you_ , pleading for more, _more_ —

You don't let go until you feel his seed spilling over your hand, and then it doesn't matter if you wanted to keep going because he's shuddering against you, around you, and if the sound of him gasping your name was good, the sound of him screaming it is so absolutely mindblowing that you can't help yourself anymore.

When you catch your breath, you realize he's chuckling again, and you almost want to shake him. Does he ever stop being a jerk? Ever? "What is it?"

"Man, I'll be your housewife every day if it means you bending me over the counter like this," he says, and snickers. 

The kiss you press to his shoulder is soft, sweet. "I'll bend you over the counter like this whenever you want me to," you promise, and he laughs. This time, you kiss his mouth, and the way he presses against you leads you to believe that he's not going to get any more housecleaning done today.


End file.
